Idol
by hairsprayheart
Summary: Everyone worships something. For Susan Pevensie, it became herself.


IDOL

A _Chronicles of Narnia_ Fanfiction

by hairsprayheart

_Everyone worships something. For Susan Pevensie, it became herself._

ROLLERS

Susan had always prided herself on being resilient. When the war started, she had not complained, but became more resourceful. When their father went away to be a part of that war, she had not cried, but became stronger. When they were sent of the professor's house, she had not pouted, but became independent. When they first entered Narnia, she had not been fearful, but became braver. When she became a leader in that place, she had not crumbled, but became gentler. When she lost that place and that leadership, she had not forgotten, but became wiser. When they regained it back again, she had not bragged, but became more grateful. When Aslan seemed to forget them, she had not worried, but became hopeful. When Aslan sent them away, again, and this time for good, she had not saddened, but became worldly. Susan was resourceful and strong and independent and brave and gentle and wise and grateful and hopeful and worldly. She was everything that any good English girl could hope to be, but it was not what her family wanted for her. But that didn't matter anymore. Because Susan didn't care. She didn't care about the Narnia that had forgotten her, because she, too, had forgotten _it_. She loved her rollers, so her hair could be as bouncy and firm as she was. It didn't matter, no, that when the curls fell out, she was nothing, that she was flat and empty and lifeless, no. Because she was not like that. She was Susan, master of the rollers, and she spent hours each day with them so that she would remain such. Her hair was cared for like a living being, with a personality that matched its owner's.

LIPSTICK

Susan had always prided herself on being special. She liked the way that boys had looked at her. They followed her around like a goddess. And in truth, she was. She had once been a queen, in a faraway dream, or a dream of a dream. But no longer. Now, she was a goddess, one that every young man worshipped when they watched her walk by. She would put on that pretty pout, even though it wasn't her, not really, no. But it didn't matter, because that's what everyone wanted, that's what she wanted. She liked the attention, the way the painted-on red made her feel like a doll, a beautiful doll, and that's what they called her, sometimes. It was the new slang. Her lipstick kept her safe. It attracted people, but it kept her guarded, because she didn't want the lipstick to smear. She reapplied it religiously, for it must never smudge. Heaven forbid her appearance might be marred by a hint of red peeling off onto a glass of water! She carried that golden tube with her always, like a sword, to ward off the terrors of ugliness and cracked lips. When the boys kissed her, and she did let them kiss her, it would not be long before she smudged them off and attended to her lips once again. For they were her most precious commodity, now. It didn't matter that, once, they had been precious for other reasons – not a way to attract the boys, but a way to bring peace, show compassion. She had ruled a kingdom with those lips, made treaties with them. But that didn't matter, no, because that wasn't real. Her reality now was here. But it was better than reality, for this, too, was a dream, where she was the star. Sometimes, it was almost nightmarish, the way she toiled to keep up appearances, because she was fearful of what people might find if they heard what was really hidden between those ruby lips. But it didn't matter, no, because this was what she had chosen. They said that beauty was pain, and it was worth it. For that was all Susan had wanted, to be somebody. To stand out.

POWDER

Susan had always prided herself on being flawless. Every blemish, every sign of imperfection, was swiftly and harshly hidden away in a mound of concealer. That was the way everything was, now – anything unhappy or unpleasant or undesirable was buried deep in the dark recesses of her memory, packed away in boxes never to be reopened. Sometimes, of course, someone would go digging (mainly Lucy, sometimes Peter), but she would brush them off. She would brush them off in a cloud of powder and sweetly-scented philistinism. And they had no answer, anymore, suffocated by her stifling apathy. She would never again show anyone her vulnerability. All they saw was this façade. But it was no longer a façade, really; it had become a mask that was molding to her face. She didn't smile, anymore, unless it was a false one to indulge a fellow partygoer or intrigue a boy that had caught her eye. She didn't really have any reason to smile. People had used to say that she had a beautiful smile, but now her lips had other purposes, so she generously redirected the focus of her beauty elsewhere, to her startlingly pale complexion and high cheekbones. This concealer was putty, one that filled all of her emptiness with beauty. It made it so that everyone else was putty in her hands. She could have had all the boys she wanted, but they were just to play with, just to occupy her until she found something else, something better. But there never would be anything better, because she was the best. Her perfection was staggering and intimidating and delicious. It was difficult to maintain, but it was worth it. She craved the power that came with being special. She was special not in the same way she had once been, because there were lots of other pretty young ladies, girls who were more ladylike, more human, than she was. But it was hard to be human. Human meant showing emotion, revealing flaws. And to do that would be her unraveling. So she kept up her image, building up a fortress of caked powder to hide behind, a fortress no one could penetrate.

JEWELRY

Susan had always prided herself on being sophisticated. It was important to her that she looked adult, because it commanded respect among the inferior children that usually surrounded her. Once, children hadn't been a burden. Once, life had been beautiful. Everything had been so beautiful. But now the only way to make it seem that way was with her jewelry. She was the only beautiful thing she had left, so she had to leave her influence on everything around her, since she couldn't look in the mirror _all _the time (only most) to reassure herself that beauty was still possible. And one of the easiest, though of course she had never been lazy when it came to appearance, ways to improve one's appearance is to put on beautiful jewelry. Pearls were her favorite. She wasn't sure why – her mother had never approved of looking glamorous, there was no money and no approval for it during these difficult times. Maybe that is why she liked it so much; lately, Susan had taken great pleasure in rebelling against her mother. These pearls were not her mother's pearls, but her grandmother's, rescued from the lonely fate of residing for the rest of time in a black-velvet lined cedar box on her mother's vanity. She could spend hours just looking at herself in front of the mirror, admiring herself in a simple black sheath dress and that strand of pearls. It didn't matter whether or not she actually had anywhere to go (though she usually did). She would arrange whole outfits around those treasured pearls. There was something about this little practice, of changing outfits multiple times and seeing which went best with what, that was faintly reminiscent of an age long ago. Playing dress-up, and all those other childish games that she had chosen to forget about. Maybe she still desired deeply to be a child, though of course she wouldn't admit it. For, after all, she was an adult now. She was too old, too mature, too sophisticated for those games.

PERFUME

Susan had always prided herself on being desirable. She had always been her father's favorite. (Of course, he had loved her brothers, and he probably would have loved Lucy if he had gotten to know her better before he left for, and was changed by, the War.) She had always been her teachers' favorite. (She raised her hand in class, tried to answer all the questions even though she answered wrong, apologized profusely when she was caught talking to her girlfriends, made sure she never got caught cheating, and appeared bravely content with her grades even when they were bad. This girl that seemed to try so hard to impress everybody evoked both their sympathy and their admiration.) She had always been her friends' favorite. (She always had a juicy story or an encouraging smile or an extra something-or-other that was needed, and later, a cigarette that seemed just as urgently needed.) There had only been one place where she hadn't been the favorite, only one place where she was equal with everybody else. (And she didn't think she had minded, but she told herself that she _had_ minded, even though she told herself simultaneously that she couldn't remember this place at all.) There was something about perfume that made her simply irresistible. There were fine French fragrances that her father had purchased, even when he couldn't afford to, when he was away. Surely they were just apology gifts, for his being away so much, but she didn't mind them anymore. When she wore perfume, she felt fabulous and wealthy and invincible against the girls who had used to taunt her and the boys who had used to ignore her. She dabbed it on her wrists, where the boys stroked as they held her hand (she had used to rule a kingdom with those hands, signed documents and arranged banquets with those hands, but she wasn't supposed to remember). She dabbed it behind her ears, where the boys held her head while they kissed her (she had used to rule a kingdom with those ears, listened to foreign dignitaries and heard treaties with those ears, but she wasn't supposed to remember). She dabbed it along her neck, where the boys kissed if she let them get past her mouth (she had used to rule a kingdom with that mouth, made peace and gave compassion with that mouth, but she wasn't supposed to remember). She'd heard it said that smell is the sense that correlates closest with memories, but she didn't believe it, because she didn't need to have memories when she had this many people wanting to make more with her, when she didn't care, she wasn't supposed to care, she wasn't supposed to remember.

MIRROR

Susan had always prided herself on being prepared. And she always felt prepared when she had a mirror with her. It was the singularly most important thing she carried with her in her purse. After she tossed her head pretending to laugh at that joke, after she twirled her curls coyly looking at that boy, after she let him run his fingers through her hair at that movie, she used the mirror to check her hair and make sure that it was still perfect, that she still looked perfect. After she kissed that boy, after she took a sip of that drink, after she took a drag of that cigarette, she used the mirror to check her lipstick and make sure that it was still perfect, that she still looked perfect. After he had scratched at her face unintentionally during that kiss, after she had run home in the rain after that party, after she had cried for hours and hours after that night, she had used the mirror to check her powder and make sure that it was still perfect, that she still looked perfect. After she sweated during that dance, after she smoked too much of that cigarette, after she drank too much of that drink, she used the mirror to apply her perfume and make sure that it was still perfect, that she was still perfect. But she was not prepared when she looked in the mirror one moment to admire herself, and there were the sad eyes of a Lion staring back at her. But she _was_ prepared, somehow, for what she did after that. She shook out her hair and wiped off her lipstick and wiped off her powder and took off her jewelry and wiped off her perfume, and she looked in the mirror and she saw what was left. (And she felt good, so _good_, better than she had in years.) And she saw that she wasn't perfect, but she knew something – someone – that was. And she went home and she put the rollers and the lipstick and the powder and the jewelry and the perfume and the mirror in a box, and she packed it up in a box and put it in the attic. And she stopped smoking, and she stopped drinking, and she stopped kissing strange boys. And she stopped worshiping the idol, and all her pride fell away. And in Him, she became perfect.


End file.
